Page 11 of In a Pickle

“Just a drip coffee, black. You?”

“Same.” When James raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment, Liana said, “Don’t tell me you pegged me for one of those people who only drinks coffee when it’s drowning in mountains of sugar? Did you think I only drank caramel brown sugar cold foam macchiatos? Or, god forbid, did you think I was exclusively a pink drink girlie? No, no, don’t tell me if you did. I don’t think I could take the shame.”

James laughed, and Liana preened internally at the sound. “Nope, definitely not a pink drink kind of girl. I thought maybe a cafe con leche, oscurito, sin azúcar,” he said, referencing the Miami way to order a latte without sugar.

“Well, I hate to tell you, but I’m kind of a coffee snob,” she said. “I want it to be good enough to drink without milk or sugar. If it’s halfway decent coffee, I drink it black. Cafecito or Americano. If the coffee quality is terrible, I add a little milk, because shitty coffee is still better than no coffee at all.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” He touched the side of his coffee cup to hers. “Cheers. Here’s to black coffee, just like the good lord intended. Do you drink it hot or iced?”

“Depends on the day, really,” she replied. “I know you’re going to think this is super weird, but I honestly don’t care about the temperature of coffee, only the taste. Nothing hits like that first cup of coffee. I savor it for hours. I only allow myself one cup a day, because I used to drink more in college but got sick of being all jittery all the time. So now I drink decaf in the afternoons, but because I love my caffeine so much, I make that one cup last. I’m the world’s slowest coffee drinker. I’ll probably be drinking this until well after lunch, and my embarrassing secret is that I probably won’t even heat it up when it gets lukewarm.”

James shook his head in mock astonishment. “Lukewarm coffee? That’s serial killer vibes for sure. I want my coffee scalding hot. I’m talking, I want it to burn the back of my throat when I take the first sip, so I feel alive. But I certainly don’t limit myself to one cup a day. This is already my second, and I know it’s barely ten A.M. And this won’t be my last of the day, either.”

“Well,” she tsked. “We can’t all have my level of self-control.”

“No,” he said, his face suddenly turning serious. “Some of us are just barely holding onto our self-control.”

He looked directly into her eyes, and Liana couldn’t help wondering if he was talking about her. Did he want to lose control with her? It certainly seemed so, from the way he was eyeing her.

You’re imagining things, she thought. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and decided that now would be an excellent time to resume working on her job applications. She replaced her headphones over her ears and tried to concentrate on a cover letter and not on the attractive man two feet away from her.

After a minute of staring blankly at the laptop screen, Liana felt a tap on her shoulder. She pulled down her headphones.

“What are you listening to?” James asked.

Liana certainly wasn’t about to tell him that she hadn’t been listening to anything for the past minute; she’d been hoping the noise cancellation would drown out the roar of her heartbeat in her ears, caused by the man across from her. Instead, she said, “Didn’t anyone teach you that if a woman has headphones on, it means she really doesn’t want to be talked to?” She kept her tone light, but it came out a touch flirty. Damn her voice for betraying her.

“Sorry,” said James, not looking sorry at all. “It’s just that, I’m trying to send out some emails to people I really don’t want to talk to, and it would motivate me a lot if I had some music to pump me up.”

“Well, I do have an excellent playlist for that. It’s classic 90s and 2000s hip-hop — upbeat stuff. Bangers only. It starts with Ms. Lauryn Hill and gets better from there.”

“A Spotify playlist?”

“Yep.”

“Send it to me?”

Liana wasn’t sure if this was a ploy to get her phone number… but whether it was or not, it was working. She pulled up the Spotify playlist, hit the share button, and handed James her phone so he could type in his number.

“Ah,” he said, surprised. “Looks like you already have my number in here. Maybe from high school?”

“Hm, I don’t see when we would have exchanged phone numbers in high school. Did you put your number on Facebook back in the day? Pretty sure we’re Facebook friends.”

“You’re right. Gotta love the Metaverse for keeping my phone number stored in your phone for a decade.” He pulled up his own phone. “But I don’t seem to have your number. I mean, I do now, because I just sent myself a text from your phone.”

“Not all of us are clueless idiots who broadcast our phone number on the internet. That’s like a homing beacon for weirdos. I bet you get a lot of weird feet pics from strangers.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever gotten a foot pic, but point taken. I’ll try to remember the password to a Facebook profile I haven’t used in four years and attempt to conserve my privacy better.” He gave her another megawatt smile. “Thanks for looking out for me, Abrams.”

“Any time, Alonso.”

“Okay, not to be rude, but I’ve got some emails that I have to angry-write, and some 90s hip-hop to jam to. Can we work together for a while?” Smirking, he gestured to his own earphones.

“Yeah, I’ve got to get back to work, too.”

But she’d only been working for a few minutes before she felt her phone vibrate with an incoming text.

James Alonso: I want my money back.

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